Saints and Snickers
by johnsarmylady
Summary: After the fiasco that was the family St Georges Day dinner, Mycroft tries a new way to express his patriotism. A sequel to Plaster Saint, because I can't resist my friends' suggestions! Rated K


**Disclaimer: Still don't own...sulking now!**

Sitting at his Whitehall desk, Mycroft was poring over websites on his iPad, glancing every now and then at the door. He was still smarting from the fiasco that was St George's day, and was determined never again to place his dignity in the irreverent hands of his younger brother and his blogger.

Eventually he made up his mind, and picked up his phone, dialling the number on the screen, his fingers tapping nervously as he spoke to the disembodied voice, a slight tic twitching at his brow. At last, the appointment made, he sat back and took a large bite of the cream doughnut he had bought as a treat.

xOx

_**Three Days Later…**_

"Sherlock!" exasperation coloured John's tone as once again he opened the fridge to find random body parts strewn across every possible shelf, tucked into the salad crisper, and even balanced precariously in the little sections on the door.

Putting the shopping bags down, he stormed through to the living room, where Sherlock was laying on the couch, fingers steepled against his lips, eyes closed.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Hmm"

"There are body parts in the fridge, and I have no-where to put the food!" he stood, hands clenched at his sides, waiting.

"Food's boring, John" the curly headed genius sat up, swinging his feet off the sofa and standing up abruptly.

As John looked on in amazement Sherlock dashed to the door of the flat and locked it, leaning his back against the wood and yelling "Go away, Mycroft! Whatever case you have that you think I might take, you're wrong! I won't, I don't want to, I'm busy with experiments"

"Sherlock…." His flatmate gasped.

From outside the now locked door came the bored tones of the British Government.

"Don't be a child Sherlock; you know John won't let you keep all those body parts in the fridge"

"How did he….no, don't answer that, just let him in and let's get this over with quickly"

"You won't like me screeching on the violin any more than you like the body parts" Sherlock observed, not moving.

"Don't care" John stood and glared at his flatmate "Let him in before he does something I'll regret – like kidnapping me again – or getting 'Mummy' to invite us to tea" and as Sherlock turned those thoughts over in his mind, the blond doctor delivered his coup de gras. "Worse still, before he decides to bring her here!"

It was almost amusing to see how quickly the younger man leapt away from the door, unlocking it and backing away as if from a particularly vicious animal.

Mycroft came slowly through the door, his customary condescending expression on his face, a fat manila file one hand and his shiny new umbrella in the other.

"Thank you, John" he didn't sound in the least grateful, and judging by the look on his face he was most definitely planning some sort of uncomfortable retaliation for his brother's behaviour.

Walking into the living room, he held a file out to his brother, who was now ensconced in his favourite chair with his arms wrapped around his bony shins.

"The Bolivian Ambassador's private secretary has disappeared, along with some very sensitive papers. It would be in the best interests of both countries if these papers were to be returned to the Embassy"

"You're limping" grey eyes narrowed as their all seeing gaze travelled up and down the older man's immaculately dressed figure.

"You are mistaken" came the too fast reply.

"Never!" Sherlock was out of his chair again at lightning speed, walking round his brother, deducing him. "You took your time getting out of your car, easing yourself off the seat instead of just sliding across and stepping through the door. You favoured your right leg as you mounted the stairs, giving me time to lock the door before you reached it" Finally he stepped back a pace and folded his arms, a smirk gracing his sharp features. "And you haven't sat in John's chair as you would normally do – and we all know how you hate to stand"

John, who had been listening with a frown growing ever deeper on his brow, stepped around to face his flatmate's sibling.

"Mycroft? It can't be that gash from the car accident – that was the other leg. What happened?"

Flustered, Mycroft thrust the file into the shorter man's hands.

"I'll leave that with you, you know how important it is, John, that my brother assist in this matter"

"Yep," John replied "and I also know how unlikely it is that he is 'mistaken' about your limp."

"You are not my doctor, John"

"Agreed. Nor am I Sherlock's employer – I cannot _make_ him take this case – I can, however, try to persuade him" Rolling his shoulders back, the doctor stood 'at ease', the file being held two-handed behind his back, his eyes steady on the other man's face. "You, though, either let me treat whatever injury you have, or you'll accompany me to St Mary's, where a total stranger will treat you"

Mycroft tried to outstare the smaller man, but the overall effect was ruined when his younger brother laughed aloud.

"Won't work, you can't intimidate him Mycroft – will you never learn?"

John held up a hand to prevent a full blown needle match between the Holmes brothers, and looked more closely at the older man's face.

"What have you done?"

"What?" Sherlock looked intrigued.

Mycroft looked guilty.

A slow smile spread across John's face, and he quietly asked his flatmate to go and stand by the front door. Sherlock complied; Mycroft looked like a hunted animal.

"Now John…."

"No, you had your chance to explain Mycroft," placing the file on the coffee table, he returned to his easy stance. "I want you to walk across the room"

The elder Holmes looked like he wanted to refuse, but he saw in the doctor's face the certain knowledge that he would find himself in A&E if he did. Turning slowly, he tried to walk as naturally as possible, but the pain – made worse by standing still for so long – prevented his normal smooth stride.

Sherlock looked on as John's smile grew.

"Thought so" The ex-army doctor sounded pleased with himself.

"You can't…" Mycroft started, then clamped his jaw shut against any further disclosure.

"What have you seen?" His flatmate, curious as a cat, moved back into the living room.

"Something I haven't seen since Harry was in her late twenties" crossing to the kitchen, John once more grabbed the first aid kit. "You see, she had several tattoos by then, but all easy to reach and care for. Then, she decided to get one intended only for the eyes of her girlfriends…" he raised his eyebrow at shamefaced pillar of the Government "So let me tell you what you've done, Mycroft. You've had a tattoo, yes? Yes, I thought so – right buttock? Hmm, again – obvious."

"We'll make a detective of you yet" Sherlock grinned

"No need, being a doctor – or more to the point, a _brother_ – is all the training I need to spot a tattoo that has become sore and painful because it's not so easy to get to"

Mycroft hung his head, his face flushing painfully, abject misery in every line of his body. He flinched slightly as John laid a gently hand on his arm.

"Let me look" he suggested "If it's not infected, then the chances are you just need to put some Savlon on it – that's what Harry always used. Keep it flexible as it heals, otherwise it'll crack, and bleed, and your…picture…will be ruined"

Mycroft's gaze flitted between his brother and the doctor, and John could see the plea in the blue eyes.

"Piss off Sherlock" he shoved his flatmate towards his bedroom. "Let me deal with this, and I might let you keep some of your filched and refrigerated flesh."

Sherlock was torn – he wanted to keep the body parts (Molly had been particularly generous), but he also wanted to taunt and torment his older brother. Something in the way John was looking at him stayed his complaints though, so he contented himself with making one of his trademark snarky remarks before shuffling off to his room.

xOx

Sherlock barely allowed the door to close behind his brother before he dashed out, grabbing John's arms and pinning him against the wall.

"Tell me" he demanded.

"Get off, you great git." Smacking the pale bony hands away, John returned to the kitchen to wash the bowls he'd used and stow his med kit away.

"You're smiling" the younger man observed.

"Well spotted genius."

He hovered, biting down his impatience as John grabbed his shopping bags and ran down to Mrs Hudson, begging fridge space until he could re-organise theirs (the younger man thought that a bit of careful re-stacking they could at least put the milk in – food was still boring).

Returning a short while later, carrying two steaming mugs of tea courtesy of their landlady, John handed one to his friend and sat in his chair, finally giving in to his giggles.

"Tell me John!"

"Deduce it, Sherlock – it's really not hard."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching tears of mirth stream down John's face, until suddenly he realised what the tattoo had to be…..

"The flag of St George"


End file.
